Could it be worse?
We are sitting here with our country in disarray, troops in the Capital, not knowing what is true or false, stalked by an invisible virus, a Congress that is filled with hate rather than corporation, a free press that reports only the facts that support their opinion, us against them and a treasury printing money like we are playing Monopoly. But I did get a hair cut today.
Our brother’s keeper
Many NBA fanatics, myself included, became aware of the Coronavirus only when it was made public that Rudy Gobert, center for the Utah Jazz, had contracted this destructive, debilitating, too-often deadly disease.
Does anyone other than me, wonder why, the coaches, referees, NBA executives and others in positions of authority, make no objections when a player exits the game, puts on a mask covering the mouth and nose as it should, then proceeds to pull that mask down to his chin?
The mask is useless if not work properly. these players, I believe, have a duty, as role models to many of our children to set forth a good example — not to mention an obligation to help control the spread of a disease that has taken its toll on the NBA as well as on we just plain folks.
I’m willing to bet that Rudy Gobert would have given up all those NBA millions if told that’s what it would have taken to stay alive.
There are times my heart tells me when we really are our brother’s keeper.
Irma Carroll Lindsay
Those were the days
I dig a pygmy. I remember those photos in National Geographic magazine. Nude pygmies.
They were looking at the camera like, “What’s the big deal?”
I thought they looked happy and ready to get on with their business, but this photographer is standing there in a burlap jumpsuit and camera gear.
Who’s the freak? Not the pygmy.
I feel the desire to take off my clothes and run around in my backyard sometimes.
That may have something to do with hitting puberty around 1973, when streaking was all the rage. I did it a few times.
It’s a rather fond and freeing memory. Now it’s a reason to register as a sex offender.
I enjoy hearing something new in a piece of music that I never noticed before.
I borrowed the first sentence of this letter from the opening of the Beatles, “Let it Be” album, which is playing as I write this.
I’ve been listening to it for 50 years and I’m noticing for the first time, the epic horn arrangement on George Harrison’s, “I, Me, Mine.”
It’s always been there, but this is the first time I’ve really listened to it, by itself. So subtle in the mix. It’s amazing.
I remember John Lennon and Yoko Ono were the first adults I saw naked, other than the pygmies. I was seven and looking at the cover of their 1968 “Two Virgins” album.
All I remember thinking was, “That sure is a lot of hair.” The visual wasn’t nearly as disturbing as Yoko’s primal screaming featured on the album.
My neighbor was a Beatles fan and had all their albums, including the Yoko stuff. I remember his brother screaming, “Turn that crap off!”
Those were the days, my friends.